


Hurts Like Hell

by thelogicalghost



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Songfic, Suicidal Thoughts, a fanvideo made me do it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 21:35:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19326559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelogicalghost/pseuds/thelogicalghost
Summary: For Aziraphale's safety, Crowley breaks both their hearts.Entirely the fault of Max Wayne's beautiful heartbreaking animated music video.





	Hurts Like Hell

**Author's Note:**

> So Max Wayne drew an animated music video that stabbed me in the heart, set to "Hurts Like Hell" by Fleurie, that can be found here: https://youtu.be/CNwzTFk1NDU
> 
> As the creator described it: "Both force of hell and heaven tell Crowley  
> If, he don't stay away from Aziraphale, they will do it for him  
> Which is mean they will be apart for eternal, Aziraphale will no longer exist  
> So Crowley have to break both of there heart, just to keep him safe" [sic]
> 
> I literally could not go to sleep with this pain so I wrote a one-shot to accompany it and gave it a hopeful ending. I have three other fics I'm working on for this fandom and this is what I end up posting first because it's the only way I'm going to be able to sleep tonight. So apologies for the utter lack of beta'ing, I'll fix shit tomorrow. 
> 
> I haven't written a songfic in a dECADE, THIS IS WHAT YOU'VE DONE TO ME, I HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY Please be happy I'm sorry I love your video

“You understand that this is beyond simple rebellion,” said The Metatron, the Voice of the Almighty, while standing in Crowley’s living room.

“Right,” Crowley said weakly. It was the most coherent sound he’d managed in the last ten minutes.

“We like rebellion,” said Asmodeus, Prince of Hell. “If it was merely lust, we would be commending you.”

Crowley thought, in a helpless sort of way, about all the extremely lustful things that had been on his mind the last few hours. They had actually been on his mind for centuries, but he’d thoroughly repressed them, completely certain that the object of his affections would smite him on the spot just for thinking those thoughts too loudly in said being’s presence.

But then, by some miracle beyond the capacity of Heaven of Hell, it had turned out that Aziraphale loved him. And had said as much. And Crowley had said it back, because it was true. And they’d kissed.

They’d done a fair amount of kissing, but then they’d called it a night, both feeling suddenly shy at the intensity of confessed emotions. Which was why, a few hours later, Crowley was alone in his flat when two of the most powerful beings in existence materialized inside it.

“We’ve discussed it,” The Metatron said, “and we’ve come to the conclusion that it’s unacceptable. Defying the Plan for the sake of humanity is one thing.”

“But this is quite another,” Asmodeus agreed. “Which leaves two options.”

Crowley felt a rush of hope. He’d been expecting only one option.

“Either we destroy you both –“

“- eventually –“ Asmodeus cut in with a murmur and a knowing smile.

“- or you stop being in love with each other,” The Metatron finished.

The flicker of hope froze solid. Crowley’s heart hurt with the sting of it. “What?”

 

_How can I say this without breaking?_

_How can I say this without taking over?_

_How can I put it down into words_

_When it's almost too much for my soul alone?_

 

They explained. They’d thought the whole thing out very thoroughly, it seemed. Aziraphale had proven how much of a nuisance he could be during the almost-Apocalypse (Crowley had to hide a smile at that, at his undauntable angel). Dealing with Aziraphale, once he put his mind to it, would be unavoidably public. Not that they couldn’t deal with it, if it came to that, but they were willing to try this way first.

Crowley was a demon, and moreover, a demon without pull, without hierarchy, without power, really, compared to the rest of the Hordes of Hell. He’d demonstrated a healthy sense of self-preservation, almost-Apocalypse aside, and that may have been at least in part because of Aziraphale.

So the deal was coming to Crowley.

“And anyway, you’re a demon. You’re good at lying to save your own skin,” Asmodeus drawled.

The representatives of Heaven and Hell left Crowley’s apartment some time later. He was vaguely aware that, now that he was alone, he could safely sob, and scream, and break things, but his body seemed too numb, and everything seemed too far away.

 

_I loved and I loved and I lost you_

_I loved and I loved and I lost you_

_I loved and I loved and I lost you_

_And it hurts like hell_

_Yeah it hurts like hell_

 

The pouring rain the next day felt like a perverse gift. In the rain, Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to see if tears slipped down Crowley’s face.

The demon stood in the shadow of a nearby alleyway for hours, watching the bookshop, steeling himself. When Aziraphale finally emerged he knew that if he didn’t do it now, he’d never manage, so he crossed the street as casually as possible. The darkness gave him cover while he forced his face into a blank, neutral mask.

Just lie, he told himself. You’ve lied for six thousand years, to thousands of humans. Lie for Aziraphale. Lie to save him. You can do this.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s face lit up and it felt like being punched in the gut. “Where have you been?”

“Oh, you know,” Crowley said lightly. “Around.”

“Oh. Well. I thought,” Aziraphale said, clearly uncertain.

“Oh, I know what you thought.” Over the years, Crowley had worked on perfecting an expression halfway between a sneer and a smirk, a blend of superiority and amusement to make humans feel like ants under his boot. He summoned it now so easily that he wanted to be sick. “Your desire was delicious.”

He couldn’t see Aziraphale’s eyes, in the darkness. He couldn’t see if it was working. “What’s going on, Crowley?” Oh, but the warble in his voice, that was confirmation enough.

He had to be casual, Crowley knew. Overplaying it would tip the angel off to something being wrong. He had to pretend that the thing that meant everything had meant nothing at all. “I’m going on, angel. I’ve got what I wanted, finally, from you. So I’m moving on. It’s been a fun little distraction, tempting you, but I’m bored now, so I’ll be off.”

The umbrella fell to the sidewalk. Aziraphale moved forward, just a half-step but with the promise of more. Crowley knew that if he let them get that close together his mask would break, so he forced himself to step away, to turn his back on the temptation. Turn his back to the only being in the world he cared about.

For a few moments, he couldn’t make himself walk away. He stood there, soaked from head to toe. He thought, for the briefest of seconds, that Aziraphale was going to …

No.

The moment passed. Crowley forced himself to walk away. Only in the safety of his flat did he allow himself to sink to his knees, letting the tears poor freely down his cheeks.

Unbidden, his wings materialized and wrapped around him, holding him as he sat in the dark.

 

_I don't want them to know the secrets_

_I don't want them to know the way I loved you_

_I don't think they'd understand it, no_

_I don't think they would accept me, no_

 

Crowley had hoped, with what hope he had left, that he could go to sleep and just stay asleep for a few decades. Or forever.

His body, however, didn’t seem to want to sleep more than a few hours before jerking him awake with nightmares. It didn’t want to eat, either. It didn’t even want to drink. Crowley was aware, in a distant, dull sort of way, that getting utterly smashed would loosen his control over himself, and he might do something stupid, like call Aziraphale. It wasn’t a chance he could afford to take.

His phone kept ringing. He’d turned the answering machine off, but the ringing itself was unmistakable and tempting. So he summoned enough energy to get up and walk back out of the flat, leaving his mobile behind.

He walked for miles without any sense of direction or destination.

Eventually, unavoidably, being on an island (even a large one), he reached the sea. The rain had stopped but left a bitter cold behind. No one was out on the shore this late, in this chill. Crowley was alone with just the broad uncaring face of the full moon for company.

He imagined it was looking down on him, full of cold, imperious judgement.

Suddenly he was angry.

How dare they make him do this? How dare Heaven and Hell take the only good thing out of his life and expect him to keep going as if nothing had changed? Did they expect him to go back to his flat, water his plants, and keep churning out evil deeds for the sake of some stupid war he’d already proven he didn’t care about?

Crowley wished fervently that he’d kept some holy water for himself, in that thermos. Or that he hadn’t convinced Hell so cleverly that he was “immune.” Although he couldn’t take that back, really, because it had saved Aziraphale, too.

On a desperate impulse born of rage, he found himself tearing off his clothing and walking into the surf. The water was freezing, but his body was so cold already that the prickling along his skin was easily ignored.

When he was deep enough, Crowley closed his eyes, and prayed. If you care at all, he prayed, if you ever cared, if you ever even gave a thought to me, even before I fell, you’ll bless this water with your touch. Even You won’t make me suffer this, this torture beyond anything invented in Hell.

He ducked under the water, and waited.

 

_I loved and I loved and I lost you_

_I loved and I loved and I lost you_

_I loved and I loved and I lost you_

_And it hurts like hell_

_Yeah, it hurts like hell_

 

As his physical form began to run out of air, it was tempting to hold it there.

But Crowley wasn’t being dissolved, of course. If She hadn’t heard him in six thousand years, She wouldn’t hear him now. And if he was discorporated, he’d just end up back in Hell, where the demons would happily torment him for the rest of eternity.

Anger draining as fast as it had come, the self-destructive impulse fading, Crowley let his wings materialize, pushed himself back to the surface, and flew.

The air was as cold as the water, colder with the wind. Crowley didn’t care. It felt as though the cold was sinking into him. The feeling of numbness that had driven him out here was spreading, enveloping him in welcome emptiness.

It’s like the Fall, he thought, gliding into a dive. It hurt, oh yes, and it still hurt six thousand years later, but he’d figured out how to live with that pain. He’d driven it into himself, internalized it, compartmentalized it, and got the job done.

It’s like Falling again, except this time, he knew why, and there was a reason for it. A good reason. That made it better than the first time, didn’t it? He could do this.

He could move on.

 

_Dreams fight with machines_

_Inside my head like adversaries_

_Come wrestle me free_

_Clean from the war_

 

Crowley could not move on.

 

_Your heart fits like a key_

_Into the lock on the wall_

_I turn it over, I turn it over_

_But I can't escape_

_I turn it over, I turn it over_

 

He lasted a month.

A month after that night in the rain, Crowley stood outside the bookshop, shrouded in darkness.

He was just going to take a look, he thought. Just to see if Aziraphale was okay. Making absolutely certain he couldn’t be seen or sensed, Crowley slid up to the window.

The angel was sitting with his back to the glass. There was a cup of tea gently steaming on the desk to one side and a small pile of books to the other. Aziraphale was bent over a volume in the middle. It was as average and normal a scene as Crowley had ever seen.

Crowley hadn’t thought he had anything left of his heart to shatter, but even though the numbness he felt this final break.

Because Aziraphale was fine.

Crowley was wreaked beyond all imagining, but Aziraphale was absolutely, perfectly fine.

Crowley leaned against the bricks as understanding washed over him. Aziraphale hadn’t loved him the way he loved the angel. Not that Aziraphale had lied, because he would never. But his love had been the general angelic kind, just stronger, because it was Aziraphale, who could love books and food and wine and even a demon, because his heart was just that full of love.

But he didn’t need Crowley, didn’t suffer without him. Why should he? There was no reason why anyone would want Crowley around. Every truth about himself Crowley had buried under snark and bravado was laid bare at that moment. Crowley was a sham. He certainly hadn’t deserved Aziraphale’s love. Now it would go to someone, or something, that deserved it.

He allowed himself to look at the angel one last time.

 

_I loved and I loved and I lost you_

_I loved and I loved and I lost you_

_I loved and I loved and I lost you_

_And it hurts like hell_

 

Then he turned around and walked away.

 

Except that, before he reached the corner, he heard the shop bell ding and the door open.

“Don’t you dare.”

He stopped. He turned around.

From behind, Aziraphale had looked normal. Now Crowley could see his face. Aziraphale looked pale and drained, eyes red, dark circles developing underneath them.

The angel darted forward and grabbed one of Crowley’s hands so tightly it hurt.

“You idiot,” he said. “I can _feel love_.”

Oh.

Of course.

Crowley wasn’t sure what they were going to do about Heaven and Hell, but as his eyes met Aziraphale’s, he knew, with a faith more certain and sure than anything he’d felt over the past month, that no matter what, they would face the future together.


End file.
